Chapter 2: Proclaiming One’s True Heart, Inscribing an Unalterable Creed

Chapter 2: The Heart’s Path, Hard to Alter the Proclamation

The old priest watched as Zhang Sanlu swallowed the herbal decoction, a gentle warmth flickering in his lone eye. Only then did he leave, carrying the empty bowl. Listening to the footsteps gradually fading into the night beyond the door, Zhang Sanlu waited a moment longer before sitting up again. He pulled the chamber pot closer to the bedside, intending to use his finger to induce vomiting and expel the medicine he had just drunk. But suddenly, he realized the dizzy weakness from before had markedly lessened.

He considered this for a moment. The effects of traditional medicine could not possibly act so quickly—it must be his imagination.

“Ugh—cough, cough…”

Though he tried to stifle the sound, his retching was especially clear in the quiet of the night.

“Senior brother? Are you all right?” Sure enough, before long, a timid young voice drifted through the lattice window.

“It’s… it’s nothing, I suppose it’s because I took the medicine on an empty stomach. It’s left me a bit nauseous,” Zhang Sanlu replied, wiping a trace of bitter liquid from the corner of his lips.

The voice sounded young, and the speaker addressed him as senior brother. Perhaps he could glean some useful information. With that in mind, Zhang Sanlu lowered his voice and called out, “Since I can’t sleep anyway, if you’re free, come in and keep me company for a while?”

A soft “Alright!” came from outside, followed by footsteps so light they were barely audible as they approached the door. The wooden door creaked gently open. A small figure in blue robes and a Daoist cap slipped inside, then carefully closed the door behind him.

He carried an oil lamp, its flame swaying gently as he walked, casting a writhing shadow on the wall. The young Daoist did not hurry to the bedside, but first placed the lamp on the table, then extinguished the other lamp with a soft breath before coming over with a smile.

Only now did Zhang Sanlu get a good look at the boy’s face. He was about thirteen or fourteen, his complexion pale and sallow—likely a result of the meager fare at the temple. The blue cloth Daoist robe he wore was faded and hung loosely on his thin frame. His hands, incongruously calloused for his age, spoke of frequent labor.

“Senior brother, you’re much better now?” the young Daoist asked, unable to hide the joy on his face. He sat beside Zhang Sanlu, clutching his sleeve.

Unused to such closeness, Zhang Sanlu edged away. He nodded in reply, “I’m feeling much better, though my head is still muddled. I can’t remember much, so I wanted to ask you.”

The young Daoist leaned closer, a peculiar grin spreading across his face. The dim lamplight fell slantwise on his features, his white teeth peeking from the dark red line of his lips.

Zhang Sanlu resisted the urge to punch him, silently chanting in his mind: I’m better now, I’m better, I’m no longer ill.

The boy licked his lips with a crimson tongue before lowering his voice. “That’s good… that’s good. Senior brother, do you want to know what happened after you were possessed that day? Oh, right!”

As if suddenly remembering something, he reached into his robe. Zhang Sanlu instinctively leaned back.

But the boy simply produced a piece of dried flatbread. “You must be hungry, senior brother. I took this from the kitchen for you. Eat up.” He offered it over.

Zhang Sanlu suppressed the urge to stand and grabbed the bread, giving the boy a searching look. “Is this your leftover?”

The boy looked awkward, not understanding why Zhang Sanlu would ask such a thing.

After a moment’s thought, Zhang Sanlu tore the bread in half and handed a piece back. “I can’t eat this much. Let’s share.”

The boy swallowed, pretended to refuse, but soon accepted half, tearing off a piece and chewing it before beginning his account: “That day, after you were possessed…”

Only after confirming the boy had swallowed several bites did Zhang Sanlu start eating as well. He listened for a while before interrupting with a barrage of questions: “Did you actually see the possession? What were the symptoms? What did the evil spirit look like? Why was I possessed?”

The young Daoist was a bit bewildered by the rapid questions, pausing before replying, “Yes, everyone saw it. Your… your face changed. It didn’t look like you at all. No one saw what the spirit looked like. After we helped Master set up the ritual, we left.”

He seemed to search his memory for other answers. “Master said it happened because you lost focus while reciting scripture and let your mind wander. That’s when your spirit was invaded…”

Zhang Sanlu nodded thoughtfully, motioning for the boy to continue.

The young Daoist spoke haltingly for some time, with Zhang Sanlu interjecting questions now and then until he’d pieced together a rough understanding of the incident. He also tried to probe subtly about the current year and era, but the boy knew little. They were all orphans taken in by the old priest, rarely venturing off the mountain except once long ago to fetch supplies. Their lives revolved around chanting scriptures, meditating, and tending vegetable plots. They’d hardly ever been to a market, so of course, they didn’t know what year it was.

Zhang Sanlu shook his head regretfully. It seemed the old priest—his master—was the one in the temple who understood the world best.

He wondered whether this world was real or a figment of his imagination. Was the so-called evil spirit merely a ruse to deceive the credulous, or did such things truly exist? Would he open his eyes and find himself back in the hospital bed?

Still, there were advantages to being here. He was genuinely cured, and no longer needed to take medicine. If only there were a dish of fish-fragrant pork over rice, he might actually want to stay.

His hallucinations and delusions seemed gone too; at least, he no longer heard those strange chanting voices and…

Chanting voices?!

Was it coincidence, or…

The young Daoist noticed Zhang Sanlu’s face shifting between bitterness and amusement, unsettled by his expression. “Senior brother, your body’s still weak. You should rest,” he said hurriedly, performing a Daoist salute before picking up the oil lamp, lighting another on the table, and quietly slipping away.

Zhang Sanlu watched him leave, the door opening and closing softly, footsteps fading into the night. He got up, peered out the window, and checked the door—there was neither lock nor bolt, so he braced it with a stool. Then he lay back on the bed, hands tucked behind his head, letting his thoughts drift until sleep overtook him.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he awoke, groggy and disoriented, to utter darkness—so deep he couldn’t see his own hand. All around him, he felt round, heavy boulders, thick with fur, heaped together to form a mountain.

He struggled to push aside the stones pressing on his body and head, finally breaking free from the darkness. Only then did he realize that what he’d thought was a mountain of stones was, in fact, a monstrous mound of human heads!

Above, the sky was shrouded in rolling dark clouds, and then blood poured down like rain, dyeing his blue Daoist robe a ghastly red. As the blood fell, the mournful blare of a colossal horn tore through the heavens. The sound was so powerful, even the blood rain paused in midair. Countless echoing horn calls reverberated as the clouds parted, opening a vast circular gap in the sky. Brilliant light poured through, accompanied by a chorus of chanting voices like the drone of Buddhist sutras.

Suddenly, the light from the clouds changed to a darkness deeper than night itself. From the breach in the sky, a pale, enormous hand emerged—its massive fingers twisting like octopus tentacles, but upon closer look, the hand was formed from countless writhing white bones.

Zhang Sanlu jolted upright. Morning light streamed through the window; the oil lamp on the table had long since burned out. Yet the chanting continued, drifting in from outside.

That was the very sound!